AY 




BLISS -CARMAN 




CopyrightN" 



COPYR[GHT DEPO 



A WINTER HOLIDAY 



By bliss carman 

LOW TIDE ON GRAND PRE ^1.25 
BEHIND THE ARRAS. A Book 

of the Unseen 1.25 

BALLADS OF LOST HAVEN 

A Book of the Sea .... 1.25 
BY THE AURELIAN WALL. A 

Book of Elegies 1.25 

With RICHARD HOVEY 
SONGS FROM VAGABONDIA ^i.oo 
MORE SONGS FROM VAGA- 
BONDIA 1. 00 

Small, Maynard ^ Company 
Boston 



WINTER HOLIDAY 

BLISS CARMAN 




Boston 

Small, Maynard £ff Company 
1899 



0-' 



Pf?4441 

Copyright, jBggy by ^ 

Small, Maynard & Company VND 

(incorporated) i S 9 ^ 

1 Wo COPIES RECEIVED, ' 

tjbrary of Cojigrees-^ 
Office f the 

Register of Copyrfghfft 



•^f?£0^^ 



V 



,001803 



FlRfeT GC?V, 



THE UI-IIVERSITV PRESS, CAMBRIDGE, U. S. A. 



To T. B. M. 



Scituate, Massachusetts 
"\;;;;;;;:> October, 1899 



Contents 



Page 

December in Scituate 3 

Winter at Tortoise Shell ... 8 

Bahaman 15 

Flying Fish 28 

In Bay Street 31 

Migrants 35 

White Nassau 38 



A Winter Holiday 



A Winter Holiday 



DECEMBER IN SCITUATE 

Under a hill in Scituate, 
Where sleep four hundred men of Kent, 
My friend one bobolincolned June 
Set up his rooftree of content. 

Content for not too long, of course. 
Since painter's eye makes rover's heart. 
And the next turning of the road 
May cheapen the last touch of art. 

Yet also, since the world is wide. 
And noon's face never twice the same. 
Why not sit down and let the sun. 
That artist careless of his fame. 

Exhibit to our eyes, ofF-hand, 
As mood may dictate and time serve. 
His precious, perishable scraps 
Of fleeting color, melting curve ? 

3 



A Winter Holiday 



And while he shifts them all too soon. 
Make vivid note of this and that. 
Careful of nothing but to keep 
The beauties we most marvel at. 



Selective merely, bent to save 
The sheer delirium of the eye. 
Which best may solace or rejoice 
Some fellow-rover by and by ; 

That stumbling on it, he exclaim, 

**What mounting sea-smoke! What a blue !** 

And at the glory we beheld. 

His smouldering joy may kindle too. 

Merely selective ? Bring me back. 
Verbatim from the lecture hall. 
Your notes of So-and-so's discourse ; 
The gist and substance are not all. 

The unconscious hand betrays to me 
What listener it was took heed. 
Eager or slovenly or prim ; 
A written character indeed ! 



December in Scituate 



Much more in painting ; every stroke 
That weaves the very sunset's ply. 
Luminous, palpitant, reveals 
How throbbed the heart behind the eye ; 

How hand was but the cunning dwarf 
Of spirit, his triumphant lord 
Marching in Nature's pageantry. 
Elated in the vast accord. 

Art is a rubric for the soul, 

Man's comment on the book of earth. 

The spellborn human summary 

Which gives that common volume worth. 

So at the pictures of my friend, — 
His marginal remarks, as 'twere, — 
One cries not only, " What a blue ! " 
But, " What a human heart beat here ! " 

And now, ten minutes from the train. 
Over the right-hand easy swell. 
We catch the sparkle of the sea 
And the green roof of Tortoise Shell. 

5 



A Winter Holiday 



(He guessed from slipshod excellence 
What fable to his craft applied. 
The tortoise for his monitor. 
And Cur tarn cito for his guide.) 

Here is the slanting open field. 
Where billow upon billow rolls 
The sea of daisies in the sun, 
When June brings back the orioles. 

All summer here the crooning winds 
Are cradled in the rocking dunes. 
Till they, full height and burly grown. 
Go seaward and forget their croons. 

And out of the Canadian north 
Comes winter like a huge gray gnome. 
To blanket the red dunes with snow 
And muffle the green sea with foam. 

I could sit here all day and watch 
The seas at batde smoke and wade. 
And in the cold night wake to hear 
The booming of their cannonade. 
6 



December in Scituate 



Then smiling turn to sleep and say, 
**In vain dark's banners are unfurled ; 
That ceaseless roll is God's tattoo 
Upon the round drum of the world." 

And waking find without surprise 
The first sun in a week of storm. 
The southward eaves begin to drip. 
And the faint Marshfield hills look warm ; 

The brushwood all a purple mist ; 
The blue sea creaming on the shore ; 
As if the year in his last days 
Had not a sorrow to deplore. 

Then evening by the fire of logs. 

With some old song or some new book ; 

Our Lady Nicotine to share 

Our single bliss ; while seaward, look, — 

Orion mounting peaceful guard 
Over our brother* s new-made tent. 
Under a hill in Scituate 
Where sleep so sound those men of Kent. 
7 



A Winter Holiday 



WINTER AT TORTOISE SHELL 

" What wondrous life is this I lead ! 
Ripe apples drop about my head.'* 

But as I read, that couplet seems 
The merest metaphor of dreams, — 

A parable from Arcady 
Refuted by this wintry sea. 

The summer was so long ago, 
I hardly can believe it so. 

Did we once really live outdoors. 
With leafy walls and grassy floors, 

Through sultry morns and dreamy noons 
And red October in the dunes. 

With butterflies and bees and things 
That roamed the air on roseleaf wings ? 



Winter at Tortoise Shell 

There 's not a leaf on any bough 
To prove the truth of summer now ; 

There *s not an apple left on high 
To bear the red sun company. 

The sun himself is gone away, 
A vagabond since yesterday. 

And left the maniac wind to moan 
Through his deserted house alone. 

Over the hills we watched him forth 
From the low lodges of the North ; 

And then a hand we did not know 
Dropped the tent- curtain of the snow. 

This morning all outdoors is gray 
And bleak as dead Siberia. 

But what is that to lucky me ? 
Who would not love captivity. 

Where safe beneath their Tortoise Shell 
The Lady and the Tortoise dwell ? 
9 



A Winter Holiday 



The Tortoise is the Lady's son ; 
He makes procrastination 

A fine art in this hurrying age 

Of grudging work and greedy wage. 

An open air impressionist. 

He swims his landscape in a mist. 

And likes to paint his shadows blue. 
If it is all the same to you. 

If not, he does not call you blind ; 
He waits for you to change your mind. 

His cunning knows how color lies 
Eluding the untutored eyes. 

Perhaps within a year or two 
You may believe his pictures true. 

The Tortoise, for a pseudonym. 
Is very suitable to him. 

At Tortoise Shell the rafters green 
Mimic a shady orchard screen. 



Winter at Tortoise Shell 

The kindly half-light of the leaves. 
And June songs running round the eaves. 

The walls are hung with tapestries 
Of gold flowers bending to the breeze. 

And paintings, drenched in light and sun. 
Of Scituate shore and Norman town, — 

A mute, unfading fairyland. 

The glad work of a wizard hand, — 

A small bright summer world of art 
The winter cherishes at heart. 

Look, through the window, where the seas, 
A million strong, ride in with ease ! 

The mad white stallions in stampede. 
This is your wintry world, indeed. 

But summertime and gladness dwell 
Under the roof of Tortoise Shell. 

Color, imperishably fair. 

Is mistress of the seasons there. 



A Winter Holiday 



And, ah, to-night the Gallaghers 
Will come in all their mitts and furs. 

Across the fields to visit us. 
Then Boston urbs may envy rus ! 

We Ml let the hooting blizzard shout ; 
We '11 pull the Httle table out ; 

And Andrew Usher, ever blessed. 
Shall comfort us beneath the vest. 

So trim the light, and build the fire ; 
Bring out your oldest, sweetest briar. 

For half an hour, if you please. 
We '11 listen to The Seven Seas ,* 

Or Mr. Gallagher will sing — 
An opera or anything — 

About the Duke of Seven Dials, 
About his Dolly and her wiles. 

Then we will sit, but not for tea. 
Around the smooth mahogany. 



Winter at Tortoise Shell 

And watch while houses full of kings 
Are overthrown by knaves and things ; 

And hear the pleasant clicking noise 
Of triple-colored ivories. 

And Time may learn another trick 
To better his arithmetic. 

When wise content subtracts a notch 
For fuming weed and foaming Scotch. 

To-morrow, by the early train. 
Light-hearted mirth will come again 

To race across-lots with a crew 
Of St. Bernards, — contagious Lou, 

Who would not quit, for joys like these. 
All idle Southern vagrancies. 

By purple cove and creamy beach. 
And gold fruit hung within the reach ? 

Since friendship is a thing that grows 
To sturdy height in Northern snows, 
«3 



A Winter Holiday 



Who would not choose December weather. 
Where love and cold thrive well together. 

And bide his days, content to dwell 
Under the eaves of Tortoise Shell ? 



14 



Bahaman 



BAHAMAN 

In the crowd that thronged the pierhead, 
come to see their friends take ship 

For new ventures in seafaring, 
when the hawsers were let slip 

And we swung out in the current, 
with good-byes on every lip. 

Midst the waving caps and kisses, 
as we dropped down with the tide 

And the faces blurred and faded, 
last of all your hand I spied 

Signalling, Farewell ; Good fortune ! 
then my heart rose up and cried, 

*« While the world holds one such comrade, 

whose sweet durable regard 
Would so speed my safe departure, 

lest home-leaving should be hard. 
What care I who keeps the ferry, 

whether Charon or Cunard 1 ' * 
IS 



A Winter Holiday 



Then we cleared the bar, and laid her 
on the course, the thousand miles 

From the Hook to the Bahamas, 
from midwinter to the isles 

Where frost never laid a finger, 
and eternal summer smiles. 

Three days through the surly storm-beat, 
while the surf-heads threshed and flew. 

And the rolling mountains thundered 
to the trample of the screw. 

The black liner heaved and scuffled 
and strained on, as if she knew. 

On the fourth, the round blue morning 
sparkled there, all light and breeze. 

Clean and tenuous as a bubble 
blown from two immensities, 

Shot and colored with sheer sunlight 
and the magic of those seas. 

In that bright new world of wonder, 

it was life enough to laze 
All day underneath the awnings, 

and through half-shut eyes to gaze 
At the marvel of the sea-blue ; 

and I faltered for a phrase 
i6 



Bah 



aman 



Should half give you the impression, 
tell you how the very tint 

Justified your finest daring, 
as if Nature gave the hint, 

** Plodders, see Imagination 
set his pallet without stint ! ** 

Cobalt, gobelin, and azure, 
turquoise, sapphire, indigo. 

Changing from the spectral bluish 
of a shadow upon snow 

To the deep of Canton china, — 
one unfathomable glow. 

And the flying fish, — to see them 

in a scurry lift and flee. 
Silvery as the foam they sprang from, 

fragile people of the sea. 
Whom their heart's great aspiration 

for a moment had set free. 

From the dim and cloudy ocean, 
thunder-centred, rosy-verged. 

At the lord sun's Sursum Cor da ^ 
as implicit impulse urged. 

Frail as vapor,* fine as music, 

these bright spirit- things emerged ; 

2 17 



A Winter Holiday 



Like those flocks of small white snowbirds 

we have seen start up before 
Our brisk walk in winter weather 

by the snowy Scituate shore ; 
And the tiny shining sea-folk 

brought you back to me once more. 

So we ran down Abaco ; 

and passing that tall sentinel 
Black against the sundown, sighted, 

as the sudden twilight fell, 
Nassau light ; and the warm darkness 

breathed on us from breeze and swell. 

Stand-by bell and stop of engine ; 

clank of anchor going down ; 
And we 're riding in the roadstead 

off a twinkling-lighted town, 
Low dark shore with boom of breakers 

and white beach the palm-trees crown. 

In the soft wash of the sea air, 
on the long swing of the tide. 

Here for once the dream came true, 
the voyage ended close beside 

The Hesperides in moonlight 
on mid-ocean where they ride. 
i8 



Bahaman 



And those Hesperidian joy-lands 
were not strange to you and me. 

Just beyond the lost horizon, 
every time we looked to sea 

From Testudo, there they floated, 
looming plain as plain could be. 

Who believed us ? *« Myth and fable 

are a science in our time.'* 
** Never saw the sea that color." 

** Never heard of such a rhyme.'* 
Well, we 've proved it, prince of idlers, ■ 

knowledge wrong and faith sublime. 

Right were you to follow fancy, 
give the vaguer instinct room 

In a heaven of clear color. 

Where the spirit might assume 

All her elemental beauty, 

past the fact of sky or bloom. 

Paint the vision, not the view, — 
the touch that bids the sense good-bye. 

Lifting spirit at a bound 

beyond the frontiers of the eye. 

To suburb unguessed dominions 
of the soul's credulity. 

19 



A Winter Holiday 



Never yet was painter, poet, 

born content with things that are, — 
Must divine from every beauty 

other beauties greater far. 
Till the arc of truth be circled, 

and her lantern blaze, a star. 

This alone is art's ambition, 
to arrest with form and hue 

Dominant ungrasped ideals, 

known to credence, hid from view. 

In a mimic of creation, — 
To the life, yet fairer too, — 

Where the soul may take her pleasure, 
contemplate perfection's plan. 

And returning bring the tidings 
of his heritage to man, — 

News of continents uncharted 
she has stood tiptoe to scan. 

So she fires his gorgeous fancy 
with a cadence, with a line. 

Till the artist wakes within him, 
and the toiler grows divine. 

Shaping the rough world about him 
nearer to some fair design. 



Bahaman 



Every heart must have its Indies, — 

an inheritance unclaimed 
In the unsubstantial treasure 

of a province never named. 
Loved and longed for through a lifetime, 

dull, laborious, and unfamed. 

Never wholly disillusioned. 

SpirituSy read, hceres sit 
Patriae qucd tristia nescit. 

This alone the great king writ 
O'er the tomb of her he cherished 

in this fair world she must quit. 

Love in one farewell forever, 

taking counsel to implore 
Best of human benedictions 

on its dead, could ask no more. 
The heart's country for a dwelling, 

this at last is all our lore. 

But the fairies at your cradle 
gave you craft to build a home 

In the wide bright world of color, 
with the cunning of a gnome ; 

Blessed you so above your fellows 
of the tribe that still must roam. 



A Winter Holiday 



Still across the world they go, 
tormented by a strange unrest. 

And the unabiding spirit 

knocks forever at their breast. 

Bidding them away to fortune 
in some undiscovered West ; 

While at home you sit and call 
the Orient up at your command. 

Master of the iris seas 

and Prospero of the purple land. 

Listen, here was one world-corner 
matched the cunning of your hand. 

Not, my friend, since we were children, 
and all wonder-tales were true, — 

Jason, Hengest, Hiawatha, 

fairy prince or pirate crew, — 

Was there ever such a landing 
in a country strange and new 

Up the harbor where there gathered, 
fought and revelled many a year. 

Swarthy Spaniard, lost Lucayan, 
Loyalist, and Buccaneer, 

*' Once upon a time '* was now, 
and ** far across the sea '* was here. 



Bahaman 



Tropic moonlight, in great floods 
and fathoms pouring through the trees 

On a ground as white as sea-froth 
its fantastic traceries. 

While the poincianas, rustling 

like the rain, moved in the breeze. 

Showed a city, coral-streeted, 

melting in the mellow shine. 
Built of creamstone and enchantment, 

fairy work in every line. 
In a velvet atmosphere 

that bids the heart her haste resign. 

Thanks to Julian Hospitator, 

saint of travellers by sea. 
Roving minstrels and all boatmen, — 

just such vagabonds as we, — 
On the shaded wharf we landed, 

rich in leisure, hale and free. 

What more would you for God's creatures, 

but the little tide of sleep ? 
In a clean white room I wakened, 

saw the careless sunlight peep 
Through the roses at the window, 

lay and listened to the creep 
23 



A Winter Holiday 



Of the soft wind in the shutters, 
heard the palm-tops stirring high. 

And that strange mysterious shuffle 
of the slipshod foot go by. 

In a world all glad with color, 
gladdest of all things was I ; 

In a quiet convent garden, 

tranquil as the day is long. 
Here to sit without intrusion 

of the world or strife or wrong, — 
Watch the lizards chase each other, 

and the green bird make his song ; 

Warmed and freshened, lulled yet quickened 

in that Paradisal air. 
Motherly and uncapricious, 

healing every hurt or care. 
Wooing body, mind, and spirit 

firmly back to strong and fair ; 

By the Angelus reminded, 

silence waits the touch of sound. 

As the soul waits her awaking 
to some Gloria profound; 

Till the mighty Southern Cross 
is lighted at the day's last bound. 
a4 



warn 



Bahaman 



And if ever your fair fortune 

make you good Saint Vincent's guest. 
At his door take leave of trouble, 

welcomed to his decent rest. 
Of his ordered peace partaker, 

by his solace healed and blessed; 

Where this flowered cloister garden, 
hidden from the passing view. 

Lies behind its yellow walls 

in prayer the holy hours through ; 

And beyond, that fairy harbor, 
floored in malachite and blue. 

In that old white-streeted city 
gladness has her way at last ; 

Under burdens finely poised, 

and with a freedom unsurpassed. 

Move the naked-footed bearers 
in the blue day deep and vast. 

This is Bay Street broad and low-built, 

basking in its quiet trade ; 
Here the sponging fleet is anchored ; 

here shell trinkets are displayed ; 
Here the cable news is posted daily ; 

here the market 's made, 

»5 



A Winter Holiday 



With its oranges from Andros, 

heaps of yam and tamarind. 
Red-juiced shadducks from the Current, 

ripened in the long trade-wind. 
Gaudy fish from their sea-gardens, 

yellow-tailed and azure-finned. 

Here a group of diving boys 

in bronze and ivory, bright and slim. 
Sparkling copper in the high noon, 

dripping loin-cloth, polished limb. 
Poised a moment and then plunged 

in that deep daylight green and dim. 

Here the great rich Spanish laurels 
spread across the public square 

Their dense solemn shade ; and near by, 
half within the open glare. 

Mannerly in their clean cottons, 
knots of blacks are waiting there 

By the court-house, where a magistrate 

is hearing cases through. 
Dealing justice prompt and level, 

as the sturdy English do, — 
One more tent-peg of the Empire, 

holding that great shelter true. 
26 



Bahaman 



Last the picture from the town's end, 
palmed and foam-fringedthrough the cane, 

Where the gorgeous sunset yellows 
pour aloft and spill and stain 

The pure amethystine sea 

and far faint islands of the main. 

Loveliest of the Lucayas, 

peace be yours till time be done ! 
In the gray North 1 shall see you, 

with your white streets in the sun. 
Old pink walls and purple gateways, 

where the lizards bask and run. 

Where the great hibiscus blossoms 
in their scarlet loll and glow. 

And the idling gay bandannas 

through the hot noons come and go. 

While the ever stirring sea-wind 
sways the palm-tops to and fro. 

Far from stress and storm forever, 

dream behind your jalousies. 
While the long white lines of breakers 

crumble on your reefs and keys. 
And the crimson oleanders 

burn against the peacock seas. 
27 



A Winter Holiday 



FLYING FISH 

Where the Southern liners go. 
In the push of the purple seas. 
When sky and ocean merge 
Their blue immensities, 

A creature novel and fine 

Will break from the foam and play. 

Swift as a leaf on the wind. 

Part of the light and spray. 

Will scud like a gust of snow. 
Silver diaphanous things. 
As if, when the sun gave will. 
The sea for his part gave wings. 

For aeons the Titan deep 
Forged and fashioned and framed. 
In the great water-mills. 
Forms that no man has named. 
28 



Flying Fish 



With hammer of thunderous seas. 
With smooth attrition of tides. 
Shaping each joint and valve. 
Putting the heart in their sides. 

Blindly he labored and slow. 
With patience ungrudging and vast. 
Moulding the marvels he wrought 
Nearer some purpose at last. 

Not his own. Those creatures of his 
Were endowed with an alien spark. 
And a hint of groping mind 
That made for an unseen mark. 

For part was the stroke of force. 
Fortuitous, blind, and fell. 
And part was the breath of soul 
Inhabiting film and cell. 

Finer and frailer they grew ; 
Must dare and be glad and aspire. 
Out of the nether gloom 
Into the pale sea-fire. 

Out of the pale sea-day 
Into the sparkle and air, 
29 



A Winter Holiday 



Quitting the elder home 

For the venture bright and rare. 



Ah, Silver-fin, you too 
Must follow the faint ahoy 
Over the w^elter of life 
To radiant moments of joy ! 



30 



In Bay Street 



IN BAY STREET 

" What do you sell, John Camplejohn, 

In Bay Street by the sea ? *' 
*' Oh, turtle shell is what I sell. 

In great variety : 

*' Trinkets and combs and rosaries. 
All keepsakes from the sea ; 
*T is choose and buy what takes the eye. 
In such a treasury. ' * 

" *T is none of these, John Camplejohn, 
Though curious they be. 
But something more I 'm looking for. 
In Bay Street by the sea. 

** Where can I buy the magic charm 
Of the Bahaman sea. 
That fills mankind with peace of mind 
And soul's felicity ? 

3 31 



A Winter Holiday 



** Now, what do you sell, John Cample- 
john. 
In Bay Street by the sea. 
Tinged with that true and native blue 
Of lapis lazuli ? 

" Look from your door, and tell me now 
The color of the sea. 
Where can I buy that wondrous dye. 
And take it home with me ? 

"And where can I buy that rustling sound. 
In this city by the sea. 
Of the plumy palms in their high blue 

calms ; 
Or the stately poise and free 

** Of the bearers who go up and down. 
Silent as mystery. 
Burden on head, with naked tread. 
In the white streets by the sea ? 

** And where can I buy, John Cample- 
john. 
In Bay Street by the sea. 
The sunlight's fall on the old pink wall. 
Or the gold of the orange-tree ? ' ' 
3a 



In Bay Street 



** Ah, that is more than I 've heard tell 
In Bay Street by the sea. 
Since I began, my roving man, 
A trallicker to be. 

*' As sure as I 'm John Camplejohn, 
And Bay Street 's by the sea. 
Those things for gold have not been sold. 
Within my memory. 

** But what would you give, my roving 

man 
From countries over-sea. 
For the things you name, the Hfe of the 

same. 
And the power to bid them be ? " 

*' I 'd give my hand, John Camplejohn, 
In Bay Street by the sea. 
For the smallest dower of that dear power 
To paint the things I see." 

** My roving man, I never heard. 
On any land or sea 
Under the sun, of any one 
Could sell that power to thee.** 
3 33 



A Winter Holiday 



*' 'T is sorry news, John Camplejohn, 
If this be destiny. 

That every mart should know that art, 
Yet none can sell it me. 

'* But look you, here *s the grace of God 
There 's neither price nor fee. 
Duty nor toll, that can control 
The power to love and see. 

^*To each his luck, John Camplejohn, 
Say I. And as for me. 
Give me the pay of an idle day 
In Bay Street by the sea." 



34 



Migrants 



MIGRANTS 

Hello, whom have we here 
Under the orange-trees. 
Where the old convent wall 
Looks to the turquoise seas ? 

In his jacket of olive green 
He slips from bough to bough. 
With a familiar air 
No venue could disavow. 

Good-day to you, quiet sir ! 
We have been friends before. 
When lilacs were in bloom 
By the lovely Scituate shore. 

When the surly hordes of snow 
Came down on the trains of the wind. 
Two sojourners, it seems. 
Were of a single mind. 

35 



A Winter Holiday 



Both from the storm and gray. 
The stress of the northern year. 
Seeking the peace of the world. 
Found tranquillity here. 

Here where there is no haste. 
Lead we, each in his way, 
Undistracted a while. 
The slow sweet life of a day. 

Busy, contented, and shy. 
Through the green shade you go ; 
So unobtrusive and fair 
A mien few mortals know. 



It needs not the task be hard. 
Nor the achievement sublime. 
If only the soul be great. 
Free from the fever of time. 

And your glad being confirms 
The ancient Bonum est 
Nos hie esse of earth. 
With serene, unanxious zest, 
36 



Migrants 



Whether far North you fare. 
When too brief spring once more 
Visits the stone-walled fields 
Beside the Scituate shore. 

Or here in an endless June 
Under the orange-trees. 
Where the old convent wall 
Looks to the turquoise seas. 



37 



A Winter Holiday 



WHITE NASSAU 

There is fog upon the river, there is mirk 

upon the town ; 
You can hear the groping ferries as they hoot 

each other down ; 
From the Battery to Harlem there *s seven 

miles of slush. 
Through looming granite canyons of glitter, 

noise, and rush. 

Are you sick of phones and tickers and 

crazing cable gongs, / 

Of the theatres, the hansoms, and the bf^ath- 

less Broadway throngs. 
Of Flouret*s and the Waldorf and the chilly, 

drizzly Park, 
When there *s hardly any morning and five 

o'clock is dark ? 

I know where there 's a city, whose streets 

are white and clean. 
And sea-blue morning loiters by walls where 

roses lean, 

38 



White Nassau 



And quiet dwells ; that *s Nassau, beside her 

creaming key. 
The queen of the Lucayas in the blue Baha- 

man sea. 

She's ringed with surf and coral, she's 
crowned with sun and palm ; 

She has the old-world leisure, the regal 
tropic calm ; 

The trade winds fan her forehead ; in ever- 
lasting June 

She reigns from deep verandas above her 
blue lagoon. 

She has had many suitors, — Spaniard and 

Buccaneer, — 
Who roistered for her beauty and spilt their 

blood for her ; 
But none has dared molest her, since the 

Loyalist Deveaux 
Went down from Carolina a hundred years 

ago. 

Unmodern, undistracted, by grassy ramp 

and fort. 
In decency and order she holds her modest 

court ; 

39 



A Winter Holiday 



She seems to have forgotten rapine and greed 

and strife. 
In that unaging gladness and dignity of life. 

Through streets as smooth as asphalt and 
white as bleaching shell. 

Where the slip-shod heel is happy and the 
naked foot goes well. 

In their gaudy cotton kerchiefs, with sway- 
ing hips and free. 

Go her black folk in the morning to the 
market of the sea. 

Into her bright sea-gardens the flushing tide- 
gates lead. 

Where fins of chrome and scarlet loll in the 
lifting weed ; 

With the long sea-draft behind them, through 
luring coral groves 

The shiny water-people go by in painted 
droves. 

Under her old pink gateways, where Time 

a moment turns. 
Where hang the orange lanterns and the red 

hibiscus burns, 

40 



White Nassau 



Live the harmless merry lizards, quicksilver 

in the sun. 
Or still as any image with their shadow on 

a stone. 

Through the lemon-trees at leisure a tiny 
olive bird 

Moves all day long and utters his wise as- 
suring word ; 

While up in their blue chantry murmur the 
solemn palms. 

At their litanies of joyance, their ancient 
ceaseless psalms. 

There in the endless sunlight, within the 

surPs low sound. 
Peace tarries for a lifetime at doorways un- 

renowned ; 
And a velvet air goes breathing across the 

sea-girt land. 
Till the sense begins to waken and the soul 

to understand. 

There 's a pier in the East River, where a 

black Ward Liner lies. 
With her wheezy donkey-engines taking 

cargo and supplies ; 

41 



A Winter Holiday 



She will clear the Hook to-morrow for the 

Indies of the West, 
For the lovely white girl city in the Islands 

of the Blest. 

She Ml front the riding winter on the gray 

Atlantic seas. 
And thunder through the surf-heads till her 

funnels crust and freeze ; 
She Ml grapple the Southeaster, the Thing 

without a Mind, 
Till she drops him, mad and monstrous, 

with the light ship far behind. 

Then out into a morning all summer warmth 
and blue ! 

By the breathing of her pistons, by the pur- 
ring of the screw. 

By the springy dip and tremor as she rises, 
you can tell 

Her heart is light and easy as she meets 
the lazy swell. 

With the flying fish before her, and the 

white wake running aft. 
Her smoke-wreath hanging idle, without 

breeze enough for draft, 
4a 



White Nassau 



She will travel fair and steady, and in the 

afternoon 
Run down the floating palm-tops where lift 

the Isles of June. 

With the low boom of breakers for her only- 
signal gun. 

She will anchor oiF the harbor when her 
thousand miles are done. 

And there 's my love, white Nassau, girt 
with her foaming key. 

The queen of the Lucayas in the blue 
Bahaman sea ! 



43 



This first edition 0/ A Winter Holiday 
is printed for Small^ Maynard & 
Company at The Uni'versity Press in 
Cambridge^ U. S. A., No'vembery iSgg 



1899 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 




014 455 842 A m 



